


addison and sheffield

by justlikeswitchblades



Series: ivy and concrete [5]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-06
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-28 20:50:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10839204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikeswitchblades/pseuds/justlikeswitchblades
Summary: “Hey, you're okay. I missed you, too.”(19 year old aomine and third year midorima, reunited in chicago)





	addison and sheffield

**Author's Note:**

> happy 5/6!!!
> 
> cubs!aomine and 3rd year!mido! maybe a tiny bit nsfw wrt touching each other, but nothing explicit
> 
> i think this checks out if aomine, as an international player, signs for future service after july 2nd but before september 1st of his third year? either way, just roll with me here
> 
> you can [follow along](https://goo.gl/maps/xaajahQEyru) too :')

Midorima feels an ache building right behind his forehead. 

He'd managed to fall asleep on his flight, finally, about three hours ago, until the turbulence woke him up as they came in for landing. The fluorescent lights in the terminal and the light of his phone, even on minimal brightness, make his hazy eyes sting. If anything, he just wants to curl up and fall back asleep. But sleeping in one of those gate chairs would be hell, and the fact that Aomine still hasn't texted him at one in the morning is making his heart race. 

It makes sense—who knows when international rates will stop applying to his phone? But Aomine could still message him on LINE, at the very least. What if he fell asleep? Midorima doesn't know his address, what direction he'd have to point a taxi driver in. He wants to sprint down the moving walkway, but he closes his eyes, hoping that it might soothe him.

He makes his way to baggage claim thanks to a textbook chapter on airplane travel a semester back, and eyeing some other sleepy passengers. It's bright again, no less confusing than any other part of the airport at this hour. The arrivals board reveals nothing to him; it’s only until someone points in the right direction that he knows to look for the eighth station down.

“Shintarou!”

God, he's loud. 

He hears Aomine before he sees him, but thankfully there aren't too many people around at this hour. Midorima’s eyes land on the royal blue backwards cap, close enough for him to tell that Aomine's grinning, and his legs finally loosen up enough for him to start jogging when he sees him standing a few yards from the sliding doors.

“Holy shit, you're heavy,” Aomine laughs when Midorima runs up, wrapping his arms around him and making him stumble back. “At least take your backpack off before you—”

Midorima’s arms cinch tighter around Aomine, face buried into his neck the best he can with the few centimeters he has on him. Aomine smiles, sighing softly, and slips his hands in the openings he finds to rub at Midorima's back.

“Hey, you're okay. I missed you, too.”

Aomine looks over Midorima’s shoulder at the luggage carousel. It's started to move, but nothing is on it yet. Midorima pulls back with a sniff, hands dropping to Aomine’s waist. His eyes are dewy and tired, lips parted in the way they always do when he wants to kiss him. 

“Fuck,” Aomine laughs more quietly now, wiping at his eyes with his cuff. “Don't cry, baby. I'll start crying if you do.”

Midorima smiles back. He leans down and kisses Aomine, full on the mouth, too exhausted to care about his stale breath or who sees. Aomine’s fingers slide up into his hair, kissing him back. Midorima’s hair is long on his neck, curling around the tops of his ears; it softens the hard line of his jaw, and Aomine isn’t about to tell him to cut it so soon.

“Watch it,” Aomine warns with a wink, “I'm pretty famous around here.”

Midorima gives him a look, not quite believing him, but not quite writing him off, either; it’s late, and he isn’t willing to put much stock in what the truth might be.

“Well, people were pretty excited when I signed, anyways. It's calmed down a lot in the offseason,” He yawns, following behind Midorima as he heads for the luggage carousel. “Man, I'm beat. Couldn’t you have picked something a little earlier?”

Midorima sets his jaw. “It was the least expensive one available.”

“I would've been happy to spoil you with a nicer flight,” Aomine shrugs helplessly; it's his money, and yet he has no say in what he can do with it when it comes to Midorima. He sees the color rise up in Midorima's cheeks, a mix of gratitude and embarrassment. Midorima’s stubborn like that. But even with a healthy amount of his salary invested away, into stocks and other things he doesn’t quite understand, he still doesn’t know what to do with all of the money he's making.

And, well. Midorima didn't say no.

“Are you okay to drive home?”

“Yeah, it's not too bad,” Midorima reaches for his suitcase, doesn't resist too much when Aomine pries it away from him. “Do you want me to pick you up at the curb?”

Midorima gives him a look nothing short of indignation.

“I came all this way, just for you to leave me alone again?”

“You look tired!” Aomine throws up his free hand, suitcase wheels clicking as he starts toward the parking garage. Midorima catches up, huffing out a breath. Aomine’s hand drops back to his side; Midorima slides their fingers together.

***

It's past ten when Aomine wakes up; not bad for a Sunday morning, especially when they had finally gotten back closer to two. His king bed feels smaller for a second until he remembers that Midorima’s there, and he sits up. Midorima is sprawled out—sprawled out enough for him, anyways—the blankets down by his waist, in Aomine's shirt and sweatpants. The shirt is a little tight around him, fabric riding up, exposing how soft his stomach gets in the offseason. That's always been one of Aomine’s favorite things about Midorima, and holy shit he has to pee, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about this ever since he put his bed frame together last spring.

“Momo,” He coos, crawling back into bed and cuddling close, putting his hands on Midorima's stomach. “I missed you, Momo.”

Midorima stirs, shifting in Aomine's arms. Aomine leans over his shoulder, pecking kisses all over his cheek and hair. Midorima squirms some more, groaning, and rolls onto his stomach. Aomine pulls his arm out from under Midorima. His left hand goes to Midorima's waistband, clumsily pulling it and his briefs down, all the while watching what of his face isn't buried in the pillow. His ass is exposed, pale and perfect, and Aomine squeezes slowly, closing his eyes. Midorima’s softer here in the offseason, too, and it's only for the better. He groans again, more quietly now, but in a certain way that rings all too familiar in Aomine's ears even after a year away. Aomine opens his eyes to Midorima looking at him from the pillow, cheeks a bright pink. 

“Daiki—”

“I love you,” Aomine says, wide-eyed, his heart thumping hard like the first time he said it, voice straining with honesty. Midorima closes his eyes.

“You love my ass.”

“I love _you,_ ” Aomine laughs, straddling Midorima when he turns back over. He leans in and kisses him, licking and nipping at his lower lip. His hands slide under Midorima's shirt; he licks into his mouth, and Midorima kisses him back, tongue sliding against his. Aomine pulls back, his own eyes narrowed, cheeks growing warm. Midorima loops his arms around his neck.

“I missed you,” He tells Aomine, his voice going quiet. “I love you.”

“I know,” Aomine smiles, lifting a hand to cup his cheek. Midorima takes a breath, and then his stomach cuts through the quiet with a pained growl. He exhales a sigh, and Aomine grins.

“Don't worry, babe—I already know where I'm taking you for breakfast,” He swings his leg over, standing up with a stretch.

“Okay,” Midorima sits up, rubbing at his eyes. “Let me take a shower first.”

“Ooh, I hope I get to join.”

“Of course,” Midorima lowers his eyebrows. “That isn't even up for debate.” 

Aomine grins; he takes Midorima’s hand in his, and starts to unravel the tape around his fingers.

If Aomine has more of one thing compared to a year ago, it's space. Room in his bed, instead of the both of them curled up together on the bottom bunk in their dorm room. Room in the shower, something that was critically lacking in a romantic attempt to share the bathtub one evening. 

The memory makes Aomine laugh, but now he's in the midst of having his breath taken away. The skylight in his bathroom, illuminating Midorima through the glass door of the shower. Midorima, skin stark in near porcelain fairness against the blues of the tile, the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw. Long eyelashes, the way he sweeps his hair off his forehead with shampoo, his back spanning with obvious progress in the weight room—Aomine is sure he'll get pushback if he tells Midorima he's beautiful, but that doesn't mean it's anything less than true. He presses close, whispers it in his ear below the rush of the water. Midorima settles back against him, leaning his head close to Aomine’s, who kisses his shoulder. Aomine slides a hand down his chest, his stomach, and further down.

“Maybe it's stupid,” Aomine sighs, letting his fingers pour over Midorima's flaccid cock, his balls, the soft upper parts of his thighs where hair hasn't grown. “I was so scared that some part of you would’ve changed. That I wouldn't remember what you looked like.”

“We lived together for two years,” Midorima says, a hint of exasperation in his voice. “I sent you pictures when you asked for them.”

“It's not the same as seeing you,” Aomine swallows, his voice thick. “It's not the same as holding you.” He steps back, blinking up at the ceiling. Midorima turns back around to face him. Aomine tries his best not to look at him, but he knows Midorima is smiling. Not with pity, not in the way he smirks with his dry humor, just warmth.

“Do you know,” Midorima asks, weaving his fingers with Aomine's. “How many times I cried when you first left?” A sob heaves in Aomine's chest.

“I left you,” Aomine croaks. “I came here, and I left you all alone, and--”

“I cried so many times I lost track,” Midorima quietly insists above Aomine's voice, pulling him back into his arms. “And then I thought, if I have it this bad, I don't know how Daiki will survive.”

“You put your batting glove in my _bag,_ ” Aomine insists with a flash of anger in his eyes, beating a hollow fist on Midorima's chest. “That was dirty and you know it.” Midorima lowers his gaze, nodding almost to himself. Then he leans in for a kiss, and Aomine crumbles beneath him. 

“Did you get my note about jerking off into it?”

“I can't jerk off lefty! Besides,” Aomine laughs in the midst of his tears. “I wanted to give it back.”

“I was scared you'd forget about me,” Midorima explains, his own voice shaky. “It was rash, and maybe even cruel. You never brought it up when we talked, so I wasn't sure if you found it, and I wasn’t about to ask. I'm sorry I did that to you.”

“I found it when I was double-checking my stuff at home, so you're lucky I didn't break down in the locker room,” Aomine chides Midorima gently, rising onto his toes to peck his lips. “But, y’know. It was like having a part of you with me. I forgive you.”

“I forgive you, too, for leaving. I forgave you a long time ago,” Midorima wipes at his eyes. “I don't think you leaving was anywhere near as selfish as we thought it would be.”

“Shintarou…”

“ ‘Cry when you want to’... and when you need to, right?”

Aomine takes a breath. For all the height Midorima has on him, it's rare he feels small in his arms.

But it's nice to feel safe when he does.

***

Midorima narrows his eyes at the menu in front of him. There are the words he recognizes, eggs, eggs, and more eggs, mostly—and the words he _doesn't,_ a mystery to puzzle out. The menu has some cartoon faces on it, but no pictures for him to go off. He lowers it to the table.

“Can you translate—”

“Don't worry,” Aomine takes a sip of his coffee, pale with cream. “I'll order something for you.”

“Aomine Daiki,” Midorima leverages a glare. “My stomach feels like it is caving in on itself. If I don't like what you get me—”

“You'll like it,” Aomine reassures him. “I promise.”

The waitress comes by, topping off their coffees. He tries to catch what Aomine tells her—she speaks too fast for him to bother, but even Aomine’s slower pace doesn't reveal much. Midorima picks up his coffee, letting the mug warm his hands. Their knees knock together under the table.

“Let's see...man, I'm not sure what there is to talk about,” Aomine scratches his neck. “What did you say your lucky item is today?”

“A magnet,” Midorima reaches back, feeling the shape of it in his coat pocket. “I took one off your fridge.”

“Got it. Well, since you haven't really mentioned it…what are your plans after graduation?”

“I've talked to my parents about some universities,” Midorima sets his coffee down. “But they don't know I haven't submitted any applications.”

Aomine raises his eyebrows.

“I've gotten some offers from the NPB.”

“Holy shit!” Aomine grins. “What teams?”

“Hiroshima, Fukuoka,” Midorima waits a beat. “Yomiuri.”

“ _Momo!_ ” Aomine shakes his head in awe. “They all want you at pitcher?”

“Hiroshima wants me at pitcher; Fukuoka and Yomiuri, right field.”

“Have you talked to any of them yet?”

“They sent me some letters at my dorm mailbox, some emails, too. I haven’t reached back out to them, yet. I want an agent if it’s going to get serious.”

“Of course. I can talk to my agent, see if he knows anyone back in Japan?”

“Thank you; I'd appreciate that.”

Aomine nods, smiling. Midorima reaches for his hand, but pulls back when the waitress shows up, setting a plate down in front of him. He looks down at the twin swirls of the doughy, golden rectangle, white icing dripping down the sides onto the plate, then back up at Aomine. Aomine waves his expression off with his fork, a bite of pastry already on the end of it.

“Just try it.”

Midorima sighs, cutting off a bite with the side of his fork. It's sweet, but not overwhelming, warm and melty in his mouth. He doesn't even bother glancing away from Aomine's grin when he goes in for another bite, exposing the dark cinnamon of the next layer inside. 

“Daiki.”

“Good, isn't it?”

“Order me another one.”

Aomine laughs. “I got you an entree too, you know.”

“It's the offseason. I can afford it.”

“I dunno, maybe not if you're playing in the NPB...”

“You're in the MLB and _you're_ eating it.”

“Fair.” 

Aomine flags the waitress down when she passes by. Midorima listens as they exchange words, then looks back at Aomine when she’s gone.

“How do you say it again?”

 

Midorima weighs the syllables on his tongue. He takes another bite.

“Back to baseball, though; what _are_ you gonna tell your parents?”

“I don't know,” Midorima shifts in his seat. “I might just move and let them find out.”

“Shintarou…” Aomine lays his hand on top of Midorima's. “You can try, but...you'll at least tell your sister, right?”

Midorima stares at his coffee. “I'm trying to figure out how.”

“She could at least try to help explain it to your parents. And, correct me if I'm wrong but--didn't you _want_ to go to college?”

“Not if I'm going to be sitting there wasting my time,” Midorima snaps, glaring at Aomine.

“Shit,” Aomine grins. “And I thought captaining would be good for your ego.”

“It's no worse than yours.” 

Midorima is quiet for a moment, then sets his fork down. He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing.

“I know I can do it, Daiki,” Midorima insists, frustration sneaking into his voice. “I know I'm at that level.”

“Hey, I'm not trying to talk you out of it; I know you are, too. I just don't want you to drop the people that are important to you.”

Midorima huffs out a soft breath. “How do I bring it up, then?”

“Block out the moral high ground they try to pull on you,” Aomine suggests, skimming Midorima's knuckle with his thumb. “Let the money talk.”

Midorima sticks another bite of cinnamon roll with his fork. 

“We can talk about this later.”

“Of course,” Aomine squeezes his hand. “I didn't mean to try to force it out of you.”

“So…what do you wanna do after this? It's cold out.”

“I did enough sitting on my flight; I wouldn't mind walking around.”

“Alright,” Aomine raises his mug. “Wanna see Wrigley?”

***

Wrigleyville is, well, sort of lifeless and cold, but it _is_ a Sunday morning in January, so Midorima can't say he's all that disappointed. The marquee is larger than he expected it to be, though. Its red is a little faded, but still stark against the gray clouds; he doesn't tell Aomine no when he pulls up his camera to take a picture in front of it together. He doesn't even protest when Aomine smacks a kiss on his cheek; it's familiar in a place where he can barely read the street signs, and warm. Aomine chatters away about his favorite games from his rookie season, stories of fans buying him beers walking around the neighborhood in the summertime, even though his ID won't get him into the bars. 

They drive downtown, the frozen lake spanning out to the left of the car while the buildings rise higher and higher on Midorima’s right. The skyline is even prettier at night, Aomine tells him; from the tone of his voice, Midorima knows it’s something special.

The art installation in the middle of the park with its reflective surface, the floors of buildings so high up you can look out and see the city below, cars skittering like ants—there’s a lot of sightseeing, but not so much to _do,_ at least from first impressions. Not that Midorima finds himself caring all too much; it’s nice to walk around with Aomine, holding his hand and letting him steal kisses, even though he never tries to be all that stealthy about it.

He thinks about the letter he received in the mail a few weeks back, the calls from an international number, the MLB offer sitting on the tip of his tongue, from the other team still within city limits. How he’s going to keep being secretive about it with Aomine around, he isn’t so sure. He missed Aomine, and will miss him again when he goes back to Japan. But it's comforting to hear him talk about Chicago as his home. 

With any luck, it’ll soon be his home, too.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you richer for cubs ao and (eventual) sox mido!!
> 
> momo/桃 - listen...aomine loves the peach emoji okay
> 
> and breakfast doesn't fuck around [t b h](http://sportsrapport.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/photo-11.jpg)


End file.
